Wednesday, March 26, 2014

I spent a lot of years in
the music business but it wasn’t until recently that I drew on those
experiences for my writing. Downstroke and Having It All kicked it off. Then I
met the sexiest bass player, Jackie Joyride, who became the inspiration for,
what else, Joy Ride, a story of love
that could not be denied, despite a million obstacles.

Of course you, my readers
(and I thank you for this) wanted the stories about the rest of the band and so
Sydney and Rick’s love story was born in my brain. It’s about an industry that
demands almost more than it gives. That makes it difficult to have a real
personal life. That doesn’t always allow for feelings and that is rife with jealousy.

But it’s also the story
of a band with the electricity of the Lightnin’ for which it is named. And it’s
the story of two people, a hot rock star and a feisty promotions agent, who
collide like an explosion of fireworks. What do you get? #Aftershock.

You can follow Syd and
Rick’s story from Decadent Publishing beginning March 28. And Marc and Emma
from Joy Ride play an integral part in what happens.
So come on along.

She was still buzzed from the evening
when she checked into the hotel. Lightnin’ happened to be checking in at the
same time and their excitement was palpable. Even Danny and Garrett came over
and gave her a hug. They all rode up in the elevator together, the guys still
jazzed, laughing and bumping fists. Except for Rick, who was strangely silent.

They all got off at the same floor she
did and headed to their rooms. She was shocked to discover that Rick’s room
turned out to be right next to hers. She couldn’t help sliding a glance at him
and was stunned to see him watching her, a ravenous look in his eyes. There was
no mistaking the desire in his gaze. Did he want her to join him? Or should she
ask him if he wanted to come into her room? What was the protocol here?

Unsettled, she fumbled with the keycard
at her door, dropping it in her nervous haste to get inside her room. She
wasn’t aware he had moved until suddenly he was beside her, taking the card
from her fingers. He slid it into the slot and when the lock light turned green
he pushed the door open.

“Here you go.” He held the door back with
his body, waiting for her to enter the room.

“Th-Thank you.”

She moved past him, rolling her suitcase
into the room and turned to him. Before she had time to say anything he grabbed
her arms, turned her to face him and pressed her against the door.

“I’ve been wanting to do this all day.”
His voice was heavy with a combination of emotion and desire. “I think tonight calls for a celebration, don’t you?”

Speech deserted her and all
she could do was nod. She wanted him, this man who had exploded into her life.
More than wanted. She was hungry for him, a passion that never seemed to leave
her. Reaching up her hands she cupped the roughness of his late night beard,
loving the scratchy feel of it.

She tilted her face up just the least
little bit to accommodate him and his mouth came down on hers. The minute their
lips met heat surged through her as if someone had lit a match to her blood.
She clutched at his shoulders to steady herself, knowing she should break away
even as her body cried for more. She was drowning in him, his heat and scent
invading her. And all she could think was more,
more, more.

* * * * * * *

Known the world over as The Oldest Living Erotica
Author, Desiree Holt proves every day that she is more than the sum of her
years and more than the grandmother who plays with Barbie and Ken dolls: She is
The Hardest Working Erotica Author, producing one novel or more each month and
receiving rave reviews.

She is twice a finalist for an EPIC E-Book Award, a
nominee for a Romantic Times Reviewers Choice Award, winner of the first 5
Heart Sweetheart of the Year Award at The Romance Studio as well as twice a CAPA
Award for best BDSM book of the year, winner of the Holt Medallion, multiple
winner of the Whipped Cream Book of the Week Award and is published by five
different houses. She has been featured on CBS
Sunday Morning and in The Village
Voice, The Daily Beast, USA Today,
The Wall Street Journal, The London Daily Mail and numerous other national
and international publications.

Monday, March 24, 2014

Kissing his booboo won’t make it all better. But restoring his credibility and helping him build a new career might just do the trick. Shana Carpenter hustles to make Chet Stapleton king of the rodeo! Cerise DeLand shows a good girl how to do that in DO HIM RIGHT, her newest, out from EC Friday March 28.

Shana Carpenter ruined rodeo champion Chet Stapleton years ago with hastily written words. Now a PR pro, she's engineered a plan to make amends. She'll successfully promote his rodeo, soothe her conscience and leave. Trouble is, she can't keep her hands off the smooth talker or call a halt to their smokin'-hot sex.

Chet takes one glance at Shana and develops an itch to put his boots under her bed...permanently. He's won awards for taming willful fillies so he can't understand why he can't break Shana's stubborn refusal to open up to him.

The closer Shana gets to Chet, the more she wants to stay in his life and his bed. But to do that, she'll have to tell him everything—and risk his rejection. One thing is certain, if Shana doesn't put the past to rest, she'll never be able to grab the future—or the cowboy she wants most.

Excerpt: Copyright Cerise DeLand 2014, All rights reserved.

Scene takes place in Chet’s rodeo office in southwest Texas on a sweltering August morning.

“Miz Carpenter? Ma’am?” Chet Stapleton raised his voice, but he definitely sounded strained, as if he were strangling.

“Hmm?” She lifted her chin and shook back her shoulder-length, platinum curls.

He swallowed, loudly. “What’ll it be? Water? Soda?” He raised a hand to buzz his assistant on the intercom. “We have coffee too, if that’s your poison.”

“No.” You are. My fixation. Ever since, I wrote that article about you in the sports section of the Dallas paper four years ago. Ever since I printed a retraction, resigned for my foolishness and began to plan how I’d make more amends. Now I’m going even nuttier, contemplating how I can take you into my bed and kiss the hurt away.

She squeezed her labia together and felt a trickle of perspiration wend its way between her breasts.

“Water. Cool water. Please.”

“Two waters, Reata,” he told his assistant as he squinted at Shana and looked for all the world like a guy who was trying to concentrate.

Shana would have laughed, but the lure of him had her wiggling forward in her chair to try to massage her pulsing cunt. Four years ago she had been frightened by her response to his languid cowboy sexuality. She’d been young, twenty-two, in her first job at a newspaper and so naïve, both professionally and sexually. Since she’d ruined Chet, she’d corrected both lacks. Now she thoroughly examined whatever she did before she opened her mouth or typed one word. To complement that, she also knew what she liked in men. Honest, forthright, funny. Still no man yet had rung her bells more than a few times. Hunky, jovial Chet Stapleton could definitely compete.

The man was drool worthy. With his bronzed skin, that sun-kissed shock of yellow-gold hair hanging over his forehead, he was the epitome of testosterone. His rock-hewn features with generous lips and a mellow bass voice melted her into a puddle of foolish desire. No past lover could compare . Sometimes when she felt really low and foolish, she put down this lack in her life to a penance for doing him wrong and declaring he was a hothead with the judges.

Once more, regret flooded her, and she reprimanded herself. She was here to use her brains to heal the wounds she’d made. She had not come here to use her body to confuse the issue. She had to stop thinking like a horny lunatic.

Stifling a moan, she bent and dug through her briefcase for her copy of the PR proposal. All thumbs, she couldn’t find the thing.

“Problems?”

His tone was husky. Dark and suggestive. She looked up to see Chet devouring her with those wide green eyes, his look hypnotic, his mouth parting. A vision of him using that mouth to tantalize her sensitive nipples made her groan.

“Here’s your water,” he said, sounding relieved when his assistant walked in, handed both to him then shut the door behind her.

He sprang up to give Shana one of the bottles. “Would you like a glass? Ice?”

“No. Thanks.” Shana stuck out her hand. “Water’s good. No glass.”

But when he reached out to give it to her, her fingers touched his, and this time, the shock was electric. Riveting.

She yelped.

He clamped her hand to his rock-hard chest and rubbed her fingers. “Christ, sorry. You okay?”

“Sure.” She stared up at him, automatically reaching out to caress her own burning hand and, in the process, his ribs too. “Are you hurt?”

“Feels like nothing I’ve ever known before.” He put his other hand on top of hers and stroked her from fingertips to forearm as if she were a cat in heat.

“This has never happened to me before either.” I’ve never met a man I wanted within minutes of meeting him. I’m too cerebral, my friend Liz says. Too careful. But you I want soon.

His voice was a rasp when he drew her up. “Let me make it up to you.”

Five Regencies Release in Next 3 Weeks!

Then, hold on to your hat, because Cerise has 5 Regencies on the shelves in the next 3 weeks!

Yes, FIVE.

First, a box set of 4 spicy Regencies about a family that endures a curse upon those who dare to love. Doomed to failure, four brothers in the Stanhope family fall for wonderful women…and fear the end of their love affairs because of a tragic curse.

Still, lured by the women they adore, they cannot turn them away.

Four men, four brides, four marriages fight the test of The Stanhope Challenge, A Regency Quartet!

Then in her new series of Regency Romps, Cerise debuts Lady Varney’s Risqué Business.

Oh, yes, Lady Varney runs a very risqué business, arranging “interviews” for marriageable young toffs to meet ladies acceptable to their tastes…and their proclivities. But when newly minted Earl Justin Belmont appears in her drawing room, wishing to hire her services for that precise reason, she balks.

How can she possibly find Justin the best bride when her heart says it should be she…and he demands she be among those he “interviews”?

Wednesday, March 19, 2014

The last thing this
independent, high-powered lawyer wants is a cowboy in her life, but one
steamy kiss from a sexy rancher burns her resolve to a crisp

What a disaster. Delilah glared at
her rental car in helpless frustration. She hated the feeling. She was hardly a
frail, fragile woman. She prided herself on the fact that she was
self-sufficient and didn’t need anyone. Counting on others was, after all, a
recipe for disappointment.

Hard, cold experience had taught
her that.

Yet here she was. In the boondocks.
In six-inch heels. With a flat tire.

Oh, she could change a fricking
tire. Hell, she could rip out and refurbish a transmission. But the idiots at
the wilderness rental car company hadn’t bothered to put a jack in the trunk.
She was resourceful…but not that resourceful.Even if she could channel her MacGyveresque tendencies, there
was nothing out on this barren plain she could use to lever her car up high
enough to do the job.

So here she stood by the side of
the road in the middle of nowhere, in six-inch heels and without cell phone
service—the epitome of a helpless woman. All she needed was slasher music and
she could be the star of a horror flick.

A plume of dust blossomed on the
horizon and her mood lifted. Oh, thank god. Someone was coming. No one had
passed in the two hours since the blowout.

Hopefully, it wasn’t a slasher.

The plume grew. A beat-up pickup
topped one rise, and then the next. The truck rolled to a stop in front of her
crippled Honda.

Oh. Lovely. Her savior had a gun
rack.

Delilah covered her mouth and nose
as the cloud of dust caught up with the truck and engulfed her. Angie’s
birthday party had better be worth all this trouble.

She plastered a smile on her face
and turned to greet the Good Samaritan. At least, she hoped he was a Good
Samaritan. She was quite alone on this deserted stretch of road and—

Oh god.

He unfolded himself from the cab of
his truck, and her breath wedged in her throat. He was enormous. And, judging
from his ratty chambray shirt, shit-kicker boots and Stetson, he was a cowboy.

She hated cowboys. Selfish,
misogynistic sons of bitches. Her fake smile threatened to become a very real
grimace.

He stepped closer through the
lingering cloud of dust, and Delilah’s heart ker-chunked. He was gorgeous. Not
only was he tall—which she really liked in a man—he was big. Broad and brawny
and muscular. His face was a dream from his heavily lashed brown eyes to the
intriguing dent on his chin. She had to remind herself why cowboys and city
girls didn’t mix, but even that couldn’t keep her from ogling his forearms. His
sleeves were rolled up, just enough to give her a glimpse of defined veins and
a sprinkling of dark hair. She loved veiny forearms.

Damn. Why couldn’t he have been
something other than a cowboy? Or, if he had to be a cowboy, why couldn’t he
have been an old one…with Dunlap syndrome—where his belly done lapped over his
belt?

“Howdy.” His voice was deep and
smoky.

Delilah couldn’t appreciate the
sultry timbre. Of all greetings in the universe, Howdy was her least favorite.

“Having some trouble?” He whipped
off his Stetson to wipe his brow and thick black curls tumbled out.

Curls. Not fair. Why couldn’t he be
bald?

Delilah cleared her throat. “Flat
tire.”

He glanced at her car. A dimple
exploded on his cheek.

Fuck.

Dimples were her kryptonite.

“Would you like me to change it for
you? You do have a spare?”

Yeah. There it was. Sure he was
superhot, gorgeous and sexy as hell. But his patronizing tone squelched any
simmering temptation she might have been harboring.

That’s how it was with cowboys,
wasn’t it? They saw all women as helpless, idiot creatures stumbling around in
six-inch heels, batting their lashes and flashing their boobs and simpering.

Delilah was not a simperer. She was
a fuck-you, take-no-prisoners, hard-core lawyer, who could take care of herself
just fine.

But she did have a flat. And no
jack. She kinda needed his help.

So she batted her lashes. “Um. I
think there’s a tire thingy in the…what do you call it? Trunk?” She affected a
Southern drawl and thrust out her boobage, just for good measure.

It annoyed her that he bought her
act. And it kind of didn’t. The bedazzled look in his eyes was a salve to her
ego. After Trevor and all. It was nice to know she could still appeal to a man.
Even a redneck cowboy.

He loped over to her car—yes,
loped. She tried not to stare at his ass but his jeans were tight. It was a
challenge to look elsewhere. He bent to search the trunk—again, a mighty fine
ass—and stood, tipping back his Stetson. His profile, against the
bird’s-egg-blue backdrop of the sky, stole her breath.

“There’s no jack.”

“No what?”

He sighed and headed for his truck,
pulling out an impressively fancy jack. “This,” he said, “is a jack. You use it
to lift the carriage up high enough to change the tire.”

It was so sweet the way he made his
voice all slow and pedantic. You know, so she could understand. Idiot woman
that she was.

“Gosh. You’re smart.” She probably
didn’t need to gush quite that much, but hell, she hated condescending men.
Especially cowboys. But she might as well have fun with this.

He knelt and fitted the jack and
started cranking. His muscles bunched, forearms bulging with each pump.

Delilah sighed, and told herself it
was only a pretend sigh, but her gaze was riveted to the sight. “You are such a
big, strong man.”

He flashed a grin at her.

Yeah. Of course he did. Men loved
to be told how big and strong they were. She completely ignored the dimples
erupting all over his bristled cheek. Did he never shave? “How can I ever repay
you?”

He stilled. The glint in his eye
was horrifying. Crap. Had she gone too far with her helpless female shtick? She
was all alone. On a deserted highway. With an enormous Neanderthal cowboy.

When he tipped his head to the
side, her trepidation vanished. He looked more like a mischievous boy than a
mad rapist-slasher. “How about a kiss?”

Delilah blinked. “A…what?”

“A kiss. Just a little one.”

Her brain fogged over. And it
wasn’t horror at the prospect of a strange man demanding a kiss on the side of
a deserted road that muddied the waters. It was pure exhilaration at the
thought of his mouth devouring hers, those arms wrapping around her, that massive
chest, warm and hard as he yanked her close…

Aw hell.

Why was she always attracted to the
wrong guys? She wanted a man who liked opera and dreamed of traveling to Italy.
Not a guy who listened to Country and Western music, spat chew into a bean can,
and whose dream of an exciting evening was a night at the local bar playing
pool.

“What do you say, ma’am? One kiss,
in exchange for my…services?” When she hesitated, he repeated, “A little one.”

Why she nodded, she had no clue.

Well, she knew why she nodded—because
she was incapable of speech.

Why she agreed was the mystery.

Then again, he was superhot. She
ached to know how he tasted…and it wasn’t as though they would ever see each
other again. Besides, if things got out of hand, she had mace. And she knew how
to use it.

At her assent, he sprang into
action. It was astounding how quickly he changed that tire. He tossed the flat
into the trunk, returned his jack to his truck and wiped his hands.

Monday, March 17, 2014

Nothing worse than a woman who's done a man wrong...and wants to kiss his booboo all better!
Maybe kiss a few other things he's got, too.
Well, I have a story for you that is just like that. DO HIM RIGHT about a woman who wrote a rather misinformed bit of info about a famous rodeo performer...and ruined his career.
Now, she's out to do him right...and correct the error in judgement she made.
No cover, yet from EC but madly panting in wait.
Will post as soon as I can! Shana ruined rodeo champion Chet Stapleton years ago with hastily written words. Now a PR pro, she's engineered a plan to make amends. She'll successfully promote his rodeo, soothe her conscience and leave. Trouble is, she can't keep her hands off the smooth talker or call a halt to their smokin'-hot sex. Chet takes one glance at Shana and develops an itch to put his boots under her bed...permanently. He's won awards for taming willful fillies so he can't understand why he can't break Shana's stubborn refusal to open up to him. The closer Shana gets to Chet, the more she wants to stay in his life and his bed. But to do that, she'll have to tell him everything—and risk his rejection. One thing is certain, if Shana doesn't put the past to rest, she'll never be able to grab the future—or the cowboy she wants most.